Alter Egos
by BlindAssassinUK
Summary: Nick Miller does what he does best in the aftermath of that kiss. He hides. And festers. 'M' rated for language choices.
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: For all those who share in my adoration of the funny, crazy joy that is Mr. Nick Miller. He's from the streets of Chicago, yo._**

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**Alter Egos**

There was something noble about dealing in liquor. It was time-honoured, straightforward and, for the most part, an easy gig. The shitty pay was offset by the not-to-be-sniffed-at number of women he charmed into bed with embarrassingly minimal effort – and the best part - he could waste years doing it. _Years._ The twenty-two year old version of him was living the dream. The thirty-year-old reality was mostly disgusted.

The late hour had thinned out his customer base until only "Silent George" and a couple of women silly on cocktails and tequila chasers remained; he decided to take a break so pulled up a stool and took a seat behind the bar. _His _bar, his three-foot defence from all the living that happened on the other side. Fuck it, he liked the distance. "Old Nick" had been right about that at least. Because he'd tried living once, he tried swimming in the mainstream and it wasn't for him. Responsible adulthood, not that the two were mutually-exclusive, was for other people, for people who could resist the compulsion to go out of their freaking minds under the pressure of it all.

He reached for his well-thumbed manuscript: "Julius Pepperwood – Zombie Detective". He'd taken to carrying it around with him pretty much every place he went. It was a re-working of his original novel, but so what? Pepperwood made _everything_ better. The guy was a legend-in-waiting. As usual, the thick bundle of pages opened a third of the way through, at the following passage: "_…the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse is our changed reality," Jessica Night said passionately. "There is no other version of the truth; how could there be? Truth is truth is truth. We need to adapt, Julius, or we die." _

He couldn't seem to get beyond that part. He was 136 pages into his re-write and on his most positive of days, he believed what he had written was good. The other 363 days of the year, he doubted every single word that spilled from his pen. He read the same words again, wondered if he should cut out the part about truth being truth. Then he thought better of it and after staring at the closely spaced, jagged handwriting, (that if you concentrated on it for long enough looked like a scary, probably fatal, print-out from one of those heart monitor machines) he put down the manuscript and looked up to check on his customers.

"Silent George" was nursing the watery remainder of his once iced whisky, the best of it gone. The two drunken women were getting ready to leave. The brunette, the hotter of the two, was digging around in her purse and for some reason this was hysterically funny to her friend. He'd long ago stopped trying to figure out what made people laugh when they were trashed. Sober people just couldn't relate. The tall brunette then motioned him over. He fixed what he hoped was a genuine smile on his face and walked over to the far end of the bar. Up close, she smelled of wine, expensive perfume and someplace to be on a rainy Thursday night, and as she leaned forwards, he mimicked her posture. He knew he was breaking his own rule by allowing himself to be drawn over to the other side of the bar, but he didn't need to dig too deep to know that he'd be back on the right side of it again come morning. Her hand found the collar of his grey checked flannel shirt and she whispered words that were familiar but ultimately disappointing.

"What time do you get off tonight?"

"An hour, maybe".

"I'm Laura. Call me, okay?" She let go of his collar and handed him her business card. He looked down.

"Lawyer, aye?"

"Yeah, but don't let that put you off." Her hazel eyes flashed with amusement, and he smiled back.

"Never has before."

"Good. And you?"

"I'm Nick. I'm, as you've probably guessed, a bartender, but don't let that put you off."

"Never has before," she shot back.

Just shy of an hour later, "Silent George" called time. Nick often let him do it because the old guy really seemed to get a kick out of ringing the damn bell. He then escorted the bar's most loyal patron off the premises and into a waiting cab, then he hurried back inside. Twenty minutes later, he'd cashed-up the till and stashed the larger bills and the bulk of the change in the office safe. The rest stayed in the till drawer, which he put back and locked. He sprinted around the bar and turned off all the lights, except the one that illuminated the staff exit. Then he left. He stepped outside into the rain and pulled the hood of his worn green sweatshirt over his head and jogged over to his car. He sat there for maybe a minute contemplating what to do, but he really didn't try very hard to ignore the way her business card was burning a hole in his back pocket and besides, he didn't have any better place to be tonight. Schmidt was sure to be working late, Winston, who was still channelling the now depressingly successful Mr. Mojo, was on a date with Daisy and Jess was…well, Jess was home. She was always home these days. And when Jess was home, he needed to be someplace else.

He slid his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. Holding the card in his right hand, he reached for his cell phone with his left and then dialled. The phone rang until it connected to an answer service. He didn't leave a message. Shrugging, he started the engine and reversed out of the small staff parking lot and joined the late night blur of traffic. So he'd find something else to do. Maybe he'd write some more. Yeah. Sure.

The Loft

Nick slid his key into the lock and held it in place as he listened through the door for signs that people might be in the living room. His plan was to sneak in and race straight to his room; he'd stay there until he had to leave for the afternoon shift the next day. He could hear voices. One voice definitely belonged to Jess, the other, was...Schmidt. But they weren't in the living room. No. He pressed his face tighter to the door and closed his eyes, concentrating. They were in the bathroom. There was slight echo every time they spoke. So he let himself in, and after making sure to close the front door softly behind him, he fast-walked his way into his bedroom.

Once inside, he listened again. Their voices were much clearer now. This was what his life consisted of since he went insane and kissed Jess – hiding out and eavesdropping. Occasionally, he liked to mix it up and so he threw in some well-earned miserable drunkenness, but mostly he just hid and listened.

"_Can you even see out from under there, Jess? I mean, really. It looks like you have two giant hairy caterpillars stuck to your face. Worse still, they're close to meeting in the middle."_

"_My eyebrows are not that bad, Schmidt."_

_Jess turned away from her roommate and stared into the mirror above the bathroom sink. She lifted her hair off her forehead and took a closer look. Maybe Schmidt did have a point. But she should get a pass this time. She was coming off a break-up and something had to give. Sadly, it wasn't her appetite. She'd eaten forty-nine Double Stuf Oreos since lunchtime. And lunch itself had consisted of a bowl of peanut M&M's and a 40oz cup of Cherry Coke. It was entirely possible that she'd developed Type II Diabetes in the two weeks since Sam had dumped her. _

"_See? Hairy and hideous. Consider this an intervention, Jessica Day."_

_Jess spun back around. "So my eyebrows are horrifying. So I've worn these same pyjamas for three days. So I've only been brushing my hair with my fingers. So I'm wallowing in my own filth. So WHAT, Schmidt!"_

"_So you need to try and move on. Besides, Sam wasn't the man for you. I mean, first, there was the obvious disparity in the hotness department…"_

"_Aw, that's sweet of you," she softened, grasping onto the compliment as was her tendency when spiralling into romantic despair._

"_Yeah…um, not what I was going to say. Let's face it - Sam was a honey; you're more of a sweet chut-en-ay. You're full of girlie sweetness, Jess, of course you are and you know I adore you, but you lack…smoothness. You lack clarity of hotness. It's like, I know it's in there somewhere, but it's buried under all of…that." Schmidt waved his hands in her general direction and she pulled her oversized purple and white polka dot dressing gown tighter around her, her hands crossing her chest. "Your allure is a little harder to fathom," he continued, "whereas Sam was…Sam was sex nectar, you know?" _

"_It's because he's a paediatrician," Jess confirmed, her head bowed. "The combination of his good looks and his ability to administer to sick children is killer. I can't compete with that."_

"_No one can, Jess." Schmidt said seriously, as he pulled a pair of tweezers from his emergency grooming kit and passed them to her. The kit was one of an identical set of three. He kept one stored in the glove box of his car, another in his desk drawer at work, the other here in the bathroom. He didn't care what Nick said – manscaping wasn't some "elitist fad", and it wasn't "something men did when they were tired of being 'real' men", and it wasn't "Anti-Chicagoan". Ugh. Nick Miller was an idiot. For so many reasons._

"_Thanks," Jess said as she leaned in closer to the mirror._

"_Start with the middle eyebrow, Frida, and soon you'll be good as new."_

_Tears sprung to her eyes as she went to work. They were mostly pain-related. "Sam was a real catch, wasn't he?"_

"_I know he made my imaginary lady parts moist." Schmidt shrugged as he scowled at his own reflection. Since reuniting sexually with Cece he wasn't getting nearly enough sleep. His scowl morphed into a full on smile just as Jess yelled back at him: "Ewwww, Schmidt! JAR!"_

Nick backed away from the bedroom door. He did that. He'd made Jess miserable, and for what? A kiss. A kiss that was never going to go anywhere. He didn't feel brave anymore. He didn't feel confident about anything. That time had passed, as he always knew it would. Of all his alter egos, 'Trenchcoat Nick' was the worst yet.

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_**AN: Not sure if this is the end. If I can summon the will from somewhere (because writing for New Girl is hard), I might add to this. We'll see. Thanks for reading. :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: Thank you very much for your kind reviews. I honestly wasn't sure if I'd take this story to a second chapter but it was Em's (Tadpole24) birthday yesterday and I wanted to write a little something for her. Sorry it's a day late, Em! While on the subject of the lovely Em - please, if you haven't already, go check out her stellar writing (she's writes for New Girl, too).**_

_**Also, thanks to ProfJMarie for reading this through - it was much appreciated. :)**_

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~Chapter Two~

"He has the focused, steely resolve of a serial killer. You know that about him, Jess." Winston watched as she made a mug of that stinky fruit tea she liked so much.

"But it's been three days, Winston."

"Nick does this. He goes off grid."

"And people say bitches be crazy…those people need to get a load of Nick Miller, huh?" She was trying too hard to feign coolness. She understood that. Her expressed concern for her roommate's wellbeing was genuine, but really, truthfully, she was mostly preoccupied with her own emotional resilience.

Winston nodded sagely, but he felt uncomfortable talking about his friend with Jess. That's what happens when two people kiss when they have no business doing so: it gets messy. And Jess was his friend, too. See? Mess. Every-damn-where.

"So your advice is to leave him alone?"

"Absolutely. It usually takes him nine days to work through things."

"That's very specific," Jess said before taking a sip of the warm blackcurranty bliss.

"It's a pattern that's been observed over time. Ask Schmidt; he'll tell you the same."

"But it's only day three," she said softly as Winston started to back out of the kitchen. She knew he was uncomfortable talking to her about his friend – for the entire conversation he'd kept one wary eye on the door to Nick's room. She took another sip of her tea and gave Winston a sad little wave as he walked backwards out of the kitchen and directly into the sofa. Then he gave her a toothy, over-enthusiastic smile before scurrying for the front door.

She stood there sipping her tea and trying not to go out of her freaking mind. What had they done? Why couldn't they find normal again? Whatever that was. And she'd almost kissed him again! But how could she not after hearing his confession? He had wanted that ridiculous and insulting "no-nail oath". He'd signed his name to it because he couldn't help it. He didn't trust _himself_. What was he trying to do to her?

The tea was warming, comforting. She made another. And another. Maybe if she stayed in the kitchen long enough, he'd make an appearance. But could she really drink that much tea? She couldn't get his words out of her head. "It was me, Jess. I couldn't help it." Ugh. Nick Miller was a coward. And infuriating. He was an infuriating, cowardly…boy. Damn him. Damn him and his gorgeous kisses that made her want to crawl inside his grumpy world, hold him tight and breathe him in.

~oOo~

He heard the firm metallic click of Jess's bedroom door. His pen stilled for a moment. They were alone. Winston had bailed on them and Schmidt was working late. He drew a question mark inside the margin of the page he'd been sitting there staring at for far too long. Pepperwood wasn't playing ball tonight. His courageous zombie detective was growing duller by the day; his now shady, mostly transparent outline would soon, if he didn't find inspiration from somewhere, blend in with all his other failed creations. And when that happened, Pepperwood would be lost forever. He followed the curve of the question mark with his pen again and again.

NO! She was playing Taylor Swift again. Again! He wondered if she was doing so to try and smoke him out because she _knew_ his views on the matter. Well two could play that game. He got up from his desk and pressed "PLAY" on the CD player by his bed. The deep, deceptively cheerful bass of UB40's "Red Red Wine" filled his room, and with it went all trace of Jess's twangy girl music. He fist-bumped thin air, biting his bottom lip as he did so. Victory was his.

Falling heavily onto his bed, he then reached for the bedside lamp and transformed his room into comforting blackness. He really did regret kissing her and not just because it had made things even weirder between them. He'd lied about that. She was soft, sweet, warm, and she was all the things he wanted to taste and feel again. Kissing her was worse than loving Caroline, much worse, because of that nagging belief that happiness was within his grasp. With Caroline, he never really believed they would be happy together, not in the long term, not in the ways that mattered to him. But with Jess, in those few seconds when he lost his head, he felt it. Jess had kissed happiness onto his lips and he couldn't get rid of the taste. So he lied. He told her that his regret was tied up in this unsteady, alien atmosphere that now existed all around them, but it wasn't. It was tied up in the promise of what could be if only he deserved her.

~oOo~

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_**AN: Thanks for reading. :)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: So, just how good was "Quick Hardening Caulk"? It was chock-full of fine writing, broad humour (which, imo, worked) and lots of lovely Nick and Jess moments. I've tried to build in elements of the episode into this third chapter. Hopefully it works okay. **_

_**Thanks to Em for casting her eye over this.**_

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~ Chapter Three ~

Jess avoided, by a full two hours, the shrill announcement of her alarm clock. She jumped out of bed, not caring that it was still dark outside or that she had a predictably dull eight hours of work ahead of her, so why stretch out the day for any longer than was necessary? It made little sense…except it was day nine. Day nine!

Shoving her feet into her red and white polka dot slippers, it was with a definite spring in her step that she strode towards her bedroom door and opened it. The hallway, lit only by the small lights they always kept on underneath the kitchen cabinets, stretched before her, but instead of turning left, in search of tea, she found herself standing outside Nick's bedroom door.

She paused for only a moment and certainly for too short a time to really think about what she was doing, before she rapped her knuckles softly against the wooden doorframe. She waited. She waited some more. Then she placed her face flat against the cold wood and listened. Was that a snore she heard, and maybe a rustle of bedclothes? Letting her hand slide from the doorframe, it came to rest next to her cheek and the long sigh she breathed out warmed her fingers. How had she arrived at this point? How could that slow-burning, harmless attraction she felt for her roommate have suddenly transitioned into this…this thing…this skin-tingling, heart-racing desire to be close to him? Why was it, that despite knowing you were attracted to someone, there was always a tipping point, a point where you no longer just liked being around that person but _needed_ to be around them? Because she _had_ reached that point, she'd toppled fast over the edge of denial (at least she wasn't lying to herself any more), and now here she was, standing in front of his bedroom door, hoping like mad that somehow he knew she was out there.

"Hey, Jess. What'cha doin'?"

She spun around, knocking her elbow loudly, and painfully, against the door. "I…I thought you might be asleep…I was just checking."

Nick walked towards her, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, his crumpled manuscript in the other. "Nah, I was up with the damn lark this morning," he said brightly. "Um…so why were you checking?"

"Because it's day nine."

"What now?"

"You know? Day nine. It's when you come out of hibernation and talk to me again."

"I literally have no idea what you're talking about, Jess." He tried to edge around her, careful not to spill any of his coffee. "You mind opening the door for me?"

"Sure. Here," she opened the door and moved aside so he could get by her. Then she found herself talking to his back. "So, are you going to talk to me, Nick?"

"Isn't that what we're doing?" he said as he placed his prized "Chicago Bears" mug on his desk and tossed the bundle of frustrating mess and promise that was his 'maybe novel' next to it.

Jess followed him into the room, half-tempted to close the door behind her. "You've been avoiding me for days. Nine days, to be exact."

"I've been working extra shifts at the bar, Jess, you know that. And I haven't been avoiding you. Come on, I've barely seen any of you guys."

"No. It's more than that. You've been spending time with Winston and Schmidt."

"Yeah, because they came to the bar a couple of nights. We hung out there, like always. You could have come, too."

"I didn't think you wanted me there."

Nick rested against his desk, every muscle in his body tense, and his stomach in knots. "That's crazy talk. Why wouldn't I want to see ya?"

"I don't know. You tell me?"

"Um, I just did. I told you that there's no problem here," he waved his hand in her direction before holding it to his chest, unaware that he covered his heart as he did so.

"I don't believe you. Things are still weird between us."

"I don't know what to say, Jess. Things are fine. We're fine."

"Are we?" When he shrugged his agreement, she asked him again. "Are we?" "Are we, really?"

He couldn't help smiling at the way her head was cocked to the side, a frown pinching the slender column of skin between her eyebrows. "Not this again…yes, we are fine, we're good, okay?"

"But are we, Nick?" "_Are we_?"

"You seem to think that by asking the same question over and over you'll get a different response. Has that tactic ever worked for you?"

"Don't try and change the subject. I'm wise to you, Nick Miller."

"Yeah, sure you are." He didn't want his voice to sound the way it did in that moment. It was low, not much more than a whisper and he sounded hurt, maybe a little bitter.

"So you're okay with me going to yours' and Schmidt's anniversary party?"

"Jess, of course. We're friends. We're good, okay, let's not turn this…this thing into something it isn't."

She looked him the eye and was confused by the way he was looking back at her. His words didn't match his expression. At all. He looked hurt and she swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to cry. This was just too hard.

"Well if you're sure," she said tucking her long hair behind her ears, anxious to do something with her hands other than continue to ball them into tensed fists.

"I'm sure."

Jess offered him her best smile. She went all out. She may be overcompensating, but that was her way. If he still needed time to move beyond that kiss, she'd give him that. But she wasn't sure how to do the same.

~oOo~

"Tinfinity" came and went. Nick's kiss still lingered on her lips, all she had to do was close her eyes and she was right back there, in his arms, breathing him in and feeling 'twirlier' than she ever thought possible. It wasn't like she hadn't tried to erase his kiss with another, but despite her best efforts, it was his lips she could taste, could feel. And of course, of course, all she could think about was that she wanted another taste of him. Damn him.

And then he went and changed on her. He did laundry, took more interest in his job, became the sort of man that ate salads and thought about taking vitamin pills. Her head was spinning. He was slowly killing her, and there was a small part of her that wondered if he was doing it on purpose. Was he trying to show her that he wanted to be happier in his own skin for her? Or was that her ego talking?

She got her answer when she turned up at the bar and found him waist-deep in skank. Actually, Shane might be a perfectly nice person, but she had grabbed his ass, she tried to stick her tongue down his throat, and so Jess didn't feel so bad about talking trash about her. So this new Nick was just another alter ego. He was the Nick who smelled of fabric conditioner, took an interest in his job, and took his boss home at night and made her see through space and time.

Roomfriend! Room-freaking-friend, she had been so mad at him for calling her that, though as soon as she'd left the bar she realised that she couldn't come up with a better name for them. And really, wasn't that just their problem? They didn't know what they were. Together. Apart. It was a blurry, confusing mess of crossed lines, holding back, wanting, attraction, friendship and fear. Besides, wasn't Roomfriend just four letters away from Girlfriend? Maybe, just maybe, his name for whatever this was between them was right on the money.

_And he followed her home_. He'd left the bar and chased her back to the loft. That _counted _for something. And now here he was telling her that last night she'd told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Though she immediately told him to shut up, his words echoed around her head and they didn't sound quite so unbelievable as the moments passed. Oh my god, she'd actually told him that!

She was struggling to maintain her composure. He was talking about pigs and markets and she was fast losing her cool. She just wanted to get this awkward conversation out of the way, escape to her room and try and forget what a complete fool she'd made of herself. But clearly Nick was in no mood to be fobbed off and so he yelled at her, he called her out.

"Did you wanna have sex with me, yes or no?"

"Yes!" She had never been any good at lying. The look on his face was a mixture of shock and triumph and she knew she had to explain herself, as much for his benefit as her own. But the silence between them was terrifying and so she started spouting nonsense about how it was nice to see him trying at something for a change.

Then he called her a gold digger. As if!

If I were a gold digger, do you think I would be interested in you? I'd be the worst gold digger in the world!"

"You're a freaking gold digger."

"No I'm not, Nick."

It wasn't true. He knew it and she knew it. She wanted him way before he threw "Guy's Night" and started billing his friends for their drinks. Before he started doing laundry and embracing any kind of responsibility.

Nick Miller was toying with her, and she was letting him_._

"I'm so disappointed in you,"he said, a delicious half-smile playing on his lips. Jess didn't fail to notice that he then took a deliberate step towards her, cutting the distance between them considerably.

"_Shut-up. I'm not a gold digger." _Not willing to be outdone, not wanting to back down, she too moved closer. And she knew just what he would say next.

"Then prove it."

So she did.

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_**AN: Thanks for reading. :)**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: Thanks to the lovely Em for reading this over for me. Thanks also to the people alerting and adding this fic to their favourites. I won't lie - reviews would be nice...because chapter one did so well...and then... Was it something I wrote? :)**_

_**Now, let's talk New Girl - how great was "Chicago"? It was one of my favourite episodes to date. New Girl has funny in the bag, but it also has a lot of heart - that episode delivered on both counts. So good. **_

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**Chapter Four**

Considered kisses count for double, triple, even. That deliciously nerve-jangling pause before you leap. That moment when you finally realise what it might feel like if you just step closer. So you breathe. You leap. And it's soft, honest, it's truth, and then it's about stomach-tightening anticipation and his hurried gasps of need that ghost across your cheek, your throat, until your focus sharpens, narrows, until it's all about wanting him.

And you _do_ want him. That first kiss is still a promise upon your lips and all you can think about is how you want to feel that way again. Because his kiss made you float, then fly, then turn cartwheels through time and space, and all the while you still felt grounded by the way he held you, like he was never going to let you go.

You pull at his shirt. He reaches his hand around to the back on your neck, wanting you closer, and balance becomes difficult. You stumble because your kisses are predictably messy. But your feet still leave the ground. You float, you fly and you turn cartwheels. Then, like before, his hands pull you back down to earth, and though it's hard to imagine, this feels even better. He lifts you onto the kitchen table and his body stretches the length of yours. You've waited so long to feel his weight against you, his hands on your hips, around your waist, in your hair. Honest words trickle onto your tongue - you know you won't be able to stop them. You're about to tell him how good this feels, but much too quickly he's pulling back…away…gone.

Then he's talking about burning his hand in soup. Soup?! You stare at his mouth. You kiss again and then you're yelling at him. You can't stop. He makes you so mad. You can't understand how you've arrived at this point – this point where you're so close to letting go, but doing so involves you telling him what it is about him that drives you so crazy. _"You're a mess!" "Why are you so angry all the time?"_ Because the truth is that he's was a mess of his own making and he didn't need to be. He could be so much more. He _was_ so much more…if only he could see it. And why _was_ he so angry at the world? He'd told her once that he was broken, just a little bit, but he never told her why. She wanted to help him hate the world a little less, to help him see that loving someone didn't always have to hurt, didn't always have to be about compromise or a be a place to hide. Maybe he could show her those same things. Because he might not see it, but she was broken, too, just a little bit.

"_Shut-up and take off your clothes right now. And I mean it. Take off your clothes."_ All the while she was yelling at him, her heart was pounding like crazy, because she had never been this turned on in her entire life. This was Nick Miller being honest. This was him speaking out loud the words she wanted to say but couldn't. She struggled out of her jacket and then did battle with the buttons on her red shirt. She couldn't stop yelling at him and then he was advancing towards her, yelling right back at her.

Then he went and smashed the fish tank. Stupid chaotic man! Then their argument turned into one of frustration and insecurity. What could they do now? Stumble into one of their bedrooms and finish what they started and just ignore the swimming pool that was their living room? They couldn't transition from heated anger and arousal to something calmer, softer. They didn't know how to do that. If they stopped to clean up the mess someone would have to make the first move again. Terrifyingly, that first move might not result from a heated argument, it might mean being quiet, going slow, being ready. Really ready.

So she slammed her bedroom door and cursed out loud when she heard his slam shut also. Stupid Nick Miller! She grabbed the door handle, heard him do the same and then she ran at him. They could do this. There was no denying this attraction any more. They could crash into each other and take what they thought they needed, but the more she kissed him, the more she knew it wasn't enough. She wanted to kiss him slowly, lazily, with no yelling, no tipping point that made reaching for each other easier than talking.

He let her go. She let him go. They yelled at each other again. She wanted more, but didn't know how to ask for it. Because how could they take their insane attraction for one another and turn it into something more? How would that even work?

~oOo~

He'd stayed out of sight because he truly believed he didn't have a chance with her. She wasn't standing behind the one door he most wanted to open. But then she kissed him. He'd told her he wouldn't kiss her again and he was as good as his word. She had to make the first move this time. And her move took his breath away. At the precise moment her lips touched his, he closed his eyes, and like before, her kisses tasted of happiness. She was soft and strong in the way that women managed so effortlessly. She was rounded supple edges, smooth skin, heat, want, need…and maybe love. Because he was sick and tired of clinging to the illusion that loving her wasn't some place he wanted to run to. Someplace he wanted to be.

Being tangled in her made his heart soar and he didn't give a fuck that they were making a mess of this. His hand was killing him, and he winced along with her as his mouth made contact with the sensitive skin under her chin, causing her to tighten her grip on his shirtsleeve. They stumbled around the kitchen, they bumped teeth, they were frenzied and bordering on comical, but who cared? Nothing had ever felt this good.

Then he had to go and break that damn fish tank. It was the fully clothed equivalent of a cold shower…almost. He'd stormed away from her, and she from him, but the moment his bedroom door closed behind him, he wrenched it open again. This wasn't going to be their ending. Not tonight. Not now that this thing between them was beyond denial and that continuing to ignore it felt like a waste. She ran at him. He ran at her. Their collision felt like acceptance. They were in this together now.

She let him go. He let her go. They yelled at each other again. He wanted more, but didn't know how to ask for it. Because how could they take their insane attraction for one another and turn it into something more? How would that even work?

~oOo~

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_**AN: Thanks for reading. :)**_


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